


Cranberry Kiss

by Paru_Cafe



Category: Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 14:58:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18625585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paru_Cafe/pseuds/Paru_Cafe
Summary: Rouge has this way of getting under Foxy's skin.It's her nonchalant act behind a guarded mask, a calculating gaze.Like she could look at someone and see right through them.The way she'd smirk as if she knew everything.Foxy hates it. Hates her for it.(but Rouge won't look at her any more and she's not sure why she hates that more.)





	Cranberry Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> It's Golden Week, so I had some time to edit this.  
> Please forgive me for my grammar and general writing mistakes, English is not my first language.  
> Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this.

It all started because of the rain.

  
That, and also because Treddon is an idiot.

  
But Treddon being an idiot is nothing new. The rain, though, is unpredictable. They had the whole stage set ready on the Town Square, with open tents to see the beautiful, unpolluted night sky of Labyrinthia. Tourists loved those – and the crisp summer air meant a wonderful evening in perspective. After grandiose re-enactments of the Last Witch Trial by the Labyrinthian drama troupe and a couple more humour skits had been performed, Foxy had been supposed to walk on stage and give it her all, exchanging wham lines with the Judge, back-and-forth. Already, her most ardent fans had pressed themselves on the front lines, frantically waving light sticks and screaming her name in anticipation. She could remember how wildly her heart had pounded; it didn't matter how many times she performed, the excitation and euphoria were always the same, making her more and more eager to walk in front of an audience and sing and enrapture them.

  
It seemed the universe had other plans though, since the second her stilettos clicked on the floor, rain suddenly started pouring.

  
Rain, in Labyrinthia, was not uncommon. But tonight? Foxy half-expected witches and magic to be back, with the way the downpour hit so abruptly when the sky was so clear moments before. And it wasn't a storm, the ones that come when the heat in summer is unbearable and nature just wants a fresh start. It was just cold, fast and hard-hitting water; the kind of rain that just hurt and chills to the bone if you stand under it.

  
It was understandable, really, that everyone started packing in a hurry to get back to somewhere dry and warm. But Foxy couldn't help the disappointment from piercing her heart. She had looked forward to it.

  
Amongst the people rushing, she had seen some ex-Vigilantes in a semi-circle, who, it seemed, had decided where to go and already grabbed their rucksacks. Not thinking twice, she had jumped from the platform and expertly landed on Servius' back, ignoring his obscene moan. Albeit muffled with the loud rain, Foxy still heard it but had decided not to comment on it, used to it by now. She'd be lying if she said she didn't love the power she had over these men. She had wrapped her arms around his neck, too lazy to step down and get her stilettos dirty in the mud. Out of habit, the ex-Vigilantes set themselves in a tight formation and marched fast towards the East Shopping area. Years later, they were still Knights at heart.

  
It was only when they approached the marketplace that Foxy realised they were going to Rouge's tavern, and suppressed a sigh. While it was basically tradition to celebrate and drink after a show, she tended to avoid the place. Usually, after a show, Foxy was too exhausted to actually entertain anyone any more and right now, she wanted nothing but to curl in her bed and fall asleep, not brood over ale about the disappointing ordeal from before and pretend to be sultry and seductive all the time.

  
Even if this persona was like second skin at this point, and she enjoyed it, it still took a lot of effort to maintain it. But it was only a couple hours, and then she'd go home, she rationalised. And she wouldn't have to actually interact with Rouge if she just sat at a table in the corner with her boys.

Rouge was... Well, Rouge. Foxy wouldn't say she knew her that well; years back, they had gotten a tattoo on the same day, and had exchanged a nice pleasant chat. She knew Rouge was a relaxed bartender who housed starving artists, popular with men but not dating anyone, known to be very skilled with daggers and rumoured to not be fucked with, if one had to give a very short description. However it felt difficult to describe her in such few words; Foxy knew a confident woman wearing a mask when she saw one. She knew Jean, she knew Kira, she knew Eve Belduke – who doesn't know the ex-High Inquisitor, really – but so far none of these women made her that uneasy before. Every time Rouge would look at her, she'd feel like her grey eyes bore holes into her skull, scrutinizing each of her movements, and Foxy had trouble staring back. It didn't help that the bartender was this beautiful. The kind of beautiful that screams 'danger'. Honestly, it felt like she was a coiled snake ready to attack, sometimes. Rouge just had that aura of risky mystery hiding behind a harmless front, and for some reason, that set loud alarms in Foxy's mind. Who knows what her past before Labyrinthia was. For these reasons, she avoided her as much as she could.

Her boys pulled into the seedy alley and pushed the door to the tavern open. It seemed they weren't the only ones there today – then again, they rarely were. For such a hidden place, it was quite popular, sometimes even bustling with noise when Arm Wrestling Night was on. Upon entering, Shakey fell in a cacophony of rattling metal, drawing attention from nearly everybody else, before chatter rose up again.

As Foxy climbed off Servius' back, her gaze locked with Rouge's. The redhead was behind the counter, wiping a crystal glass with a handkerchief, one elegant eyebrow inquisitively arched up.

Foxy shudders, and blames it on the rain running down her back. The ex-Vigilantes split and go off their own, except for Treddon and Servius following her as she walks in the room. Confidently dodging darts, she approaches the counter and tosses her humid hair back, flashing a seductive smile at whoever is sitting there.

Zacharias Barnham jumps with a start when he turns his head at her. It takes him a few seconds to register her presence, and when he does he startles again, jumping on his two feet and barking orders at some of the men in the tavern. One of the orders involves getting her a towel. The Ex-Inquisitor was ever the gentleman; touched, she shoots him her best disarming smile but he doesn't seem affected. Damn. Did anything affect him? He was by far the most handsome man in all Labyrinthia, and easily one of the kindest. Why he remained so chivalrous and never tried to seduce any woman, yet was the biggest heartbreaker in town, was beyond Foxy.

"Fancy seeing you here, Sir Barnham," she says sweetly. "I thought you were staying in London, too." That was a lie, of course. She knows the man is too damn attached to Labyrinthia to actually follow Eve and Espella all the way to the capital city.

The ex-Inquisitor tilts his head, quirking an eyebrow. "I am here almost every day, Miss Foxy. I'd say 'tis rare to see you here, if anything."

Foxy giggles. "What can I say? I am a busy woman."

"...Right," Barnham says, his jaw working in a maddeningly attractive manner. "With the performances and everything."

"What can I get you?" interrupts a voice.

Foxy turns her head towards the bartender. The red-headed woman stands up with one hand on her hip, a light friendly smile on her face.

Yet her attitude sends chills down Foxy's back. Swallowing down the nervousness she always feel around the woman, she smiles and order tomato juice. Nodding, Rouge reports her gaze on Treddon and Servius, who were hovering behind her back. Foxy examines her face in the meantime, wondering if her skin was this golden before or if it was just the low lighting in here, before Barnham's voice snaps her out of her reverie.

"I thought you had one planned today, though. How come you are here so early?"

Someone hands her a towel, and she thanks them with a nod, using the opportunity to sit on the stool next to the ex-Inquisitor, her back to the counter. Crossing her legs in a deliberate slow fashion, she notices with disappointment that Barnham's eyes stayed trained on her face. Not even when she started wiping the water on her milky white thighs. Treddon and Servius, though, looked like dogs dying of thirst, so she glared at them through her mask. They fled quickly to Boistrum and she relaxed a bit – Barnham was a challenge and required undivided attention. Handling all three of them was not a feat she wanted to do now.

“You're right, I had one planned,” she sighs, dramatically draping her arm on the counter from behind. “But this downpour just happened, and we had to wrap up the show.” She tilts her head at him, ruffles the feathers of her hat. “But what do you know. It's boring without you in the audience.”

Barnham frowns. “Oh. Well, I apologise. I'm not too fond of loud music. Not that yours is not good, but it's not to my taste. I mean no offence,” he adds quickly.

She smiles sweetly. “Of course. None taken. I take it you're the type to prefer quiet places, then?” Her gloved hand slides on the wooden counter, her finger tracing the lines until it almost reaches his hand.

A shrug. “Perhaps. Music is lovely to listen to, I am just bad with loud chanting nowadays. And there seem to be a lot of it coming from the audience at your shows,” he says, toying with the Shade eye necklace he wears.

Foxy leans a bit closer, her index brushing against his pinky.

“How about I give you a one-on-one concert, then?” she purrs. “You'd enjoy it.”

His jaw stiffens. “Err,” he begins.

“Here's your tomato juice,” Rouge's voice cuts in. Foxy almost starts. She has to restrain herself from snapping at her, and when she looks at Barnham, he seems almost relieved by Rouge butting in. Sighing, she drops the towel – literally – on the counter behind her. She starts for real, though, when she feels the towel wiping her back, hair and feathers brushed out of the way. “You still have water on you, Foxy,” Rouge says. “There you go.”

Foxy has no idea why her throat suddenly went dry, so she turns around on the stool and gulps her juice in one go, not thanking or looking at the bartender. It doesn't quench her thirst and she has to fight down irritation at feeling her stomach twist with an indescribable feeling.

“Wow, you were parched,” Rouge comments, amused. “Sang too much?”

“There was no show today,” Foxy replies, lips in a tight line. Her teeth knocks against the glass rim, and she lets out a small 'ow'.

“Oh. That's disappointing,” Rouge says.

“Yeah.” Foxy's tone is clipped, and Barnham shifts on his seat, uncomfortable. She feels anger flare up in her again, but she's not sure at who she should direct that. Her lackeys would be happy to receive whatever though. When she glances behind her shoulder to see where they've gone, she sees Wordsmith getting too worked up by philosophy and grabbing Treddon's collar, who by trying to break free knocks over Shakey and unsurprisingly the three fall in a louder mess than before.

“Oh for Pete's sa- you!” says Rouge behind the counter in a loud, assertive voice. “It's only early evening, if you've had too much to drink, just go home!”

A few men help them get up, but Shakey insists on doing it on his own, until they realise he has actually broken some bone again. Barnham just sighs and rises from his stool. “Sorry about that, Rouge,” he apologises. “I'll walk them back to the garrison.”

“These guys still live there?” Rouge asks, crossing her arms. “They're not your responsibility any more, don't apologise.”

The ex-Inquisitor gives her an enigmatic smile. “You know how it is.” He gives a stiff nod to Foxy. “Miss Foxy, 'twas wonderful speaking with you. And,” he hesitates, “I'm afraid I must decline your private concert offer. Thank you, though.”

She watches him walk to the scene, hoisting Shakey's arm around his shoulder with the help of Balmung and Lyewood. Foxy glares for a second, at nothing in particular, but Treddon sees it and squeals. She considers leaving with them, but judging by the looks of her boys, they are expecting some heavy stomping and frankly, she's not feeling it. She just got politely rejected. And her show has been cancelled. No amount of stomping is going to make her feel better. Treddon and Servius seem to understand, and they exit the tavern obediently.

“This night is ruined,” she grumbles, turning back to the counter.

“As I said, Foxy, the night is still young,” says Rouge, a laid-back on her face as she wipes clean another glass. “Anything can happen.”

Foxy frowns deeper into her glass, before remembering it's empty. “Give me another.”

Rouge pauses her wiping, arcs an eyebrow like earlier. “More tomato juice, or something stronger?”

Foxy feels a thrill running down her spine. “Something stronger.”

“Sure. What's your poison?”

“Surprise me.”

Rouge grins. “Oooh, a challenge. Lucky you, I'm preparing something I want to add to the menu. Be my taste-tester. I hope you're not a lightweight.”

“Pssh, you've seen me drink before. Is it for free, though?” Foxy asks.

“The first will be free.”

“Deal. Give it to me.”

She watches, fascinated, as Rouge preps her shakers and ice and syrups; the way she unscrews the bottle open with ease when she has gloves (and a ring over her glove?), or the elegant flick of the wrist when she pours the cocktail it in the glass.

“Bit fancy,” she comments. “You really are going to add this to the menu?”

Rouge smirks, her eyes half-moons. “There's fancier. I know it doesn't fit the tavern and its tough-looking customers, so I don't know if it'll be popular. But try it for yourself.”

Foxy raises the crystal glass to her lips, already liking the smell. Something with cranberry. When she takes a sip though, the sweet syrupy drink transforms into unbearable liquid fire down her throat. She jerks her head back and coughs.

“Wow,” she croaks. “That's going to be popular for sure.”

“You like it?”

“It's like drinking sugary shards of glass.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Rouge says. “Enjoy your free drink.”

She leaves the counter to chat with the other customers, and Foxy sips at her drink, each gulp warming her whole body up. An interaction with Rouge that wasn't painfully uncomfortable, that's rare. She has to congratulate herself for that. She spies her from the corner of her eye; that woman's confidence is attractive, the way her hips sway, her carefree posture next to burly guys twice her size. How her smiles seem warm but Foxy can see, having mastered the art of seducing people with a curl of the lips, how guarded her face is, her eyes seeing everything but nobody can see into them. She's a mystery, as much as Barnham is. There was a rumour going around that the two were related, a few times ago. It died by now, but Foxy can't help but wonder.

Head buzzing pleasantly, she gestures to the bartender and orders another one. The red-headed woman approaches and gets to work.

“Sorry about your show, by the way. I was looking forward to it,” Rouge says.

Foxy looks up, surprised. “You came to my shows?”

Rouge smiles mysteriously. “I went once. 'Twas pretty cool. And you were wearing this sexy skirt, too,” she adds, leaning a bit closer than Foxy would have liked, “I'm also looking forward to the stories you guys bring me from the concert. Last time I asked, the Judge stage-dived.”

“Oh god, yes. And then he face-planted on the dirt because no one caught him.”

“So that's why there was this… grass… angel at the Town Square.”

“Best thing is, he didn't even care. He just rolled on his back and sang his next part like a king.”

“See? Those are the kind of things I like to hear,” Rouge chuckles.

Foxy's shoulders sag. “Well too bad for you that I got nothing special to say now, since it got cancelled.”

She must have practised this drink a lot, because Rouge's eyes don't focus on what her hands are doing. Instead, she stares at Foxy, something the blonde notices only when she looks up again. Paralysed for a second, she holds her gaze, feeling like Rouge can read her thoughts.

Eventually, the bartender gestures with her head to the spot next to her, the one where Barnham was sitting. “You want to try the Chalice challenge?”

Foxy has seen some people play it before, but she never was interested. Puzzles are interesting – the Chalice challenge though, is simply infuriating, judging by the irritation and bags under Lottalance's eyes the following mornings. The poor boy was adamant on trying to find the solution and never ever did, not once, despite slaving away for hours to no end.

But perhaps she wants another challenge. “Bring it on,” she says.

Rouge smirks again, and sets the glasses quickly. Foxy cradles her glass of liquid magic and thinks.

Attempt one ends up in broken glass on the other side of the counter.

So does attempt two.

And attempt three…

By attempt eleven, most customers have left, she's getting fed up, and she wonders how the hell does Rouge not mind having to pick precious shattered crystal this many times. Groaning, she grabs a fistful of feathers, orders another drink. Her head feels light, and Rouge's teasing does not irritate her; on the contrary, it makes her feel more determined. There's something entrancing about this tiny woman that radiates feminine and masculine vibes; the tattooed pink heart on her defined biceps adds to it. Foxy pictures her in a leather jacket and feels her throat drop to her stomach. She downs her drink under the bartender's incredulous gaze.

“Careful, there. You're not going to be able to go home if you do it like this.”

Foxy shrugs. “I'll be fine, I live around the marketplace,” she tries to stand up straighter, but her head lolls back, a pleasant hum in her throat. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that they're now alone in the bar – she's the last customer. It must be getting late, she should go back.

“Yeah, no,” Rouge says. “Cutter's upstairs, but there's a free room. You're going to sleep here.”

“I'll be fine...”

“You slept here once, right?”

Foxy remembers. It was one time when they were celebrating Boistrum's proposal to his then-girlfriend, now-wife. The night had been wild – she remembered standing on the counter, the very same counter she was leaning on, and doing very risqué poses in front of Emeer Punchenbaug, while singing sinfully as her boys tap-danced along.

“Yeah, I do recall. But I'm not that level of drunk.”

Another quirk of the eyebrow.

“What's the problem? Too scared to sleep under the same roof as me?”

Foxy's head reels back.

Rouge is staring at her intensely, and she feels her face grow from uncomfortably warm because of the alcohol to icy cold in just one second. These grey eyes make her feel so small, so vulnerable – and she has no idea why, it's infuriating.

“I'm not… I'm not scared?”

It comes off as a question; Rouge scoffs, frowning and smiling at the same time. “Right. Like you're not shaking every time I look at you.”

Irritation takes over her emotions.

“You don't hold any power over me,” Foxy says, voice tight but a pleasant smile plastered on her face. “I'm not scared of you.”

“Then what is it?” Rouge asks, eyes narrowed. “Why do you look like you want to get away from me as soon as I approach you?”

The blonde shrugs. “I would have never figured you cared so much for my opinion of you,” her index caress the rim of her glass, staining the glove with some pink.

“Did it never occur to you that I wanted to be friends?” Rouge retorts, a grin still stretching her lips. “We're acquaintances at best because you do not let me have a conversation of more than five minutes, even when we met outside; even we got a tattoo on the same day. I don't know, I knew I made you mad – that's okay, I can live with that. I was just curious why.”

Her voice is even, and it's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kinda moment but her eyes take on a hurt edge, and Foxy immediately decides that she hates it.

She also hates how composed that woman is, when Foxy can feel her breath going more and more ragged. She hates losing face. She hates that Rouge can pretend not to care.

“Why do you hide?” she blurts out.

This time, both her eyebrows shoot up. “Hide?”

The blonde sits straighter on the stool, which wobbles dangerously. Like her resolve. “You… You're… You're never showing anyone the real you, are you?”

“The real me…?” Rouge repeats, before breaking into a fit of chuckles. “I'm the real me. I'm real. Not sure about you, though.”

Foxy's composure breaks. “What?”

“I, at least, don't wear a mask when I'm in public,” she says, sarcastically. “What do you hide?”

“I'm not hiding anything,” Foxy growls. “The mask is purely for aesthetic purposes.”

“Really?” Rouge fires back. “Then why hide behind this dominatrix persona when clearly you're exhausted by it?” Before Foxy can protest, she adds: “Why act so flirty when you don't feel like it? Don't try to hide it, I've seen it.”

“Y-you...”

"Silence, Foxy."

Foxy's heart stops. The words screech to a halt and hurt in her throat.

“Anybody with eyes can see it. I think I'm understanding something here. Why go after Zacharias when everyone knows he's not interested? Was it a challenge?”

“I was just having fun,” Foxy manages to say, and she wants to avert her eyes but she can't, there's something in Rouge's eyes that make her body stiffen and ache.

“Well you know what I think? I think deep down you're not having fun,” Rouge says. “Not the way you want, anyway.”

Foxy can only glare, but she knows she is faltering. Somewhere in her heart, it hurts, the sort of hurt that took root years before but is now spreading, ready to explode, pressing at every part of her body as if to escape. Rouge's lips look so full, her eyes are stormy and Foxy cannot look away, cannot breathe.

“I think you're scared of something. Not me. Something. And you've associated it with me, because I'm a reminder.” Rouge leans over menacingly, yet Foxy feels her body heat up, her anger and confusion giving way to heat pooling in her stomach. “A reminder of why you wear the mask. The masks,” she adds, quietly.

Her face is very close, and Foxy hears the last part loud and clear despite her heart pounding like it never did before. Gently, Rouge's gloved fingers brush against her jaw, then cheek. They slide under the mask and Rouge takes it off delicately, the way one opens a fragile gift. Foxy doesn't want to pull back, but she can't help but jitters and look elsewhere. Her eyes are a dull brown, almost black, and she hasn't liked people looking at her bare face in forever; but Rouge is having none of that. Her fingers glide once more and she tilts her head up so that they can look into each other's eyes again.

“I think...”

Rouge's eyes flicker to her lips.

Foxy's mouth waters.

“I think you know the answer,” the redhead murmurs, so soft her breath caresses Foxy's face.

She does.

And so she kisses her.

She grabs the ends of Rouge's sleeveless jacket and kisses her over the counter, knocking over some glass in the process. It's not the first time she's kissed someone, far from it, but this time it's like she's feeling every emotion at once. Rouge's lips against hers feel amazing, slow and steady, heat and pressure and magic.

Rouge pulls back a little to catch her breath, earning a whine from Foxy. Quickly, Rouge steps over and hoists herself on top of the counter, her hands sliding behind Foxy's neck, threading through the hair and feathers. Hazily, Foxy stands up from the stool, nestling comfortably against Rouge's curves – her hands grasp at her thighs, her hips; when her fingers caress the exposed skin of her stomach, she hears Rouge audibly gasp, and Foxy can't contain her excitement. She's tall enough to have access to her lips and neck and everything else, so when Rouge's tongue slides over her bottom lip, she can't help the sharp exhale that spills past her. She peppers kisses all over the redhead's jaw, growing more and more bold and toying with the hem of Rouge's pants. The smaller woman shifts to get closer, putting a hand on the counter before jerking it away in pain, mouthing 'ow'.

“Rouge?” Foxy murmurs, her voice hoarse.

There's a glass shard that went right through the glove, and there's blood dripping down her arm. Rouge sighs and pushes Foxy's shoulders slightly, before jumping on the floor.

Their height difference reversed, Rouge settles on wrapping her arms around Foxy and resting her head on her chest. The blonde is sure she can hear her heart pounding, and she's almost embarrassed at how fast it's going.

Then she sees Rouge's actual flushed face, and all she wants to do again is throw the redhead over the counter and kiss every centimetre of her skin.

Instead, she opts for the safer approach.

“You should get that disinfected,” she murmurs. Rouge nods in agreement, and steps out of her reach. A knot ties itself in Foxy's throat with the loss of her body heat.

Rouge doesn't do something too complicated; handkerchief, some of the alcohol in the dusty bottles that no one seem to request, and pressure. Foxy offers some help and holds the handkerchief in place. There's something quiet, something intimate that passes between the both of them, and it's enough to calm them down.

When Foxy's ears aren't burning any more and her breathing is back to normal, Rouge gently puts a hand on her wrist.

“Go to bed.”

“But…

“Just go. Bed. Upstairs,” Rouge's says.

Her tone is stern but not icy, so Foxy doesn't protest any further. When she searches for Rouge's eyes, there's something soft and fond. She knows they'll talk about this later.

The room upstairs is not too messy or dark, but right now it seems depressing with the euphoria from before. It's only three hours after she got under the covers, three hours of tossing and turning and feeling her whole body burn up that she finally falls asleep, remembering faintly she left her mask downstairs.


End file.
